


The Ballad of Pol and Tathas

by Nebulad



Series: Mien'harel [14]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Fluff, M/M, Other, Post-Game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-23 05:04:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9641849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nebulad/pseuds/Nebulad
Summary: Zevran poured them some coffee, handing it to them although he knew they didn’t like it. He’d put some sugar into it— a chore as most of the stuff was formed into a hard clump in the bag they kept it in, and required a certain amount of chiselling to be useful. He settled down behind them and let them lean against his chest as they both stared out the window— kept clean, Gahruil couldn’t stand grimy windows and Cyrion had always drilled his quiet pride into them— watching the pink sun burn behind the buildings nearest the gate.“You’re full of shit,” they said finally.“Why this time?” he asked, holding his mug loosely. There was a chip in the rim that he kept carefully away from his mouth.





	

Gahruil awoke the same way they did every morning, by being jostled by Zevran’s graceless sliding out from underneath them and onto the rough wooden floor. They groused as he padded towards the stone stove to heat water— he made some vile Qunari drink that helped him _focus_. It just made Gary jittery.

“Where you going?” they asked, gesturing towards the window where the sun hadn’t peaked over the clustered buildings of Rialto.

They hadn’t been in the city long but Zevran had wanted to test their luck somewhere more populated— Gahruil had argued in favour of the Tellari Swamps but Zevran was superstitious about it. _Already met a Witch of the Wilds,_ they’d protested. He’d been unmoved and staunchly insisted that they didn’t understand, and that the Swamps were off the table. _Crows won’t go there, we can make a plan in peace._

 _Rialto. We can test their scouts and see how much strain their information network can take before it begins to break,_ he’d said, obviously ignoring them at that point. _They will not be looking for me if Ignacio insists I am dead, and they won’t receive news of Taliesen for months. So long as we don’t tweak their noses too hard they will not bother to investigate._

Crows _had_ dipped in to look— the neighbourhood had become oddly quiet and Gahruil had stiffly shown them around the house (a short tour as it was only one very large room and they were without Cyrion’s talent for strategic furniture placement to make it seem like more) and grunted out apologies for their husband’s absence. When they left, Zevran had slid in the back window and laughed boisterously at the foolishness of the Crows. _They send children to scout for them,_ he’d said, although his shoulders were a little tighter and his grip on Gary was suffocating.

He wasn’t tense standing by the dim fire of their stove, but groggy. “I was going to stretch my legs,” Zevran said, taking a seat on one of the padded wooden chairs that scattered their kitchen. They had temporary housing in the better part of Rialto’s Alienage— all their housing was temporary except perhaps Alistair’s swanky new palace, but as far as Antiva went they couldn’t afford to plant their flag quite so soon— and they did their best to make it homey without getting attached to it. _The chairs are rather charming, in an ugly sort of way— yet, unfortunately, they are very ugly. Easier to lose in a fire, no?_

It was putting a strain on Zevran to live in an Alienage, and truth be told Gahruil couldn’t really claim to be enjoying themself either. Zev had told them that Alienages seemed to be much the same wherever one went, but Gary had only ever been to one. To see the same squalor and hopelessness permeating their people a sea removed from Denerim was disheartening to say the very least.

Zevran disliked their subterfuge, necessary as it was. He didn’t like lying to people he pitied and if there were a group that received the chunk of Zevran’s pity, it was his own people. He feared for them as much as he disdained their ruse— a newlywed couple from Salle who had fled an angry human neighbour. _Salle is not Antiva City so the elves will not shun us for fear of our imaginary human,_ he’d explained. Gahruil hadn’t liked it, but said nothing- Vaughan was dead and they never had to be afraid of a human again— and true to form, Zevran had pressed a little kiss behind their ear. _Only a story,_ cariño, he’d promised softly.

It hadn’t placated them entirely, but they found the work that went into maintaining their cover distracted them enough that it rarely bothered them to slip into the role of helplessness again. With Zevran beside them (for the most part), they did everything a newlywed couple would be expected to do. It was sort of cute how _lost_ Zev was about it all, if Gahruil was being honest. He didn’t know the first thing about maintaining his own horrible, shanty house.

They bought furniture from a small shop in the city’s market that hired elven apprentices— ugly chairs and mismatched dressers, using handfuls of copper instead of the silver and sovs they had hidden discreetly on them in case of separation or emergencies. They routinely performed maintenance on their house, though that was a necessity separate from the ruse— they patched holes in the roof with violently blue tarp that did very little to keep out the cold, and they diligently painted over the slurs that found their way onto the door in the dead of night (and helped their neighbours do the same, everyone working in grim silence).

Privately, Gahruil had to wonder if life with Nelaros would have been like this. They would wake up each morning as he rolled out of bed before dawn, destined for the marketplace where no doubt Wade would be kind enough to hire him out to perform mundane smithing. Would they have bought mismatched furniture and laughed at the gaudy patterns that no human would assign enough value to in order to keep it out of elven hands? Would they have made friends with the neighbours, helping them paint over their doors and pretend to feel safe in their homes?

Zevran poured them some coffee, handing it to them although he knew they didn’t like it. He’d put some sugar into it— a chore as most of the stuff was formed into a hard clump in the bag they kept it in, and required a certain amount of chiselling to be useful. He settled down behind them and let them lean against his chest as they both stared out the window— kept clean, Gary couldn’t stand grimy windows and Cyrion had always drilled his quiet pride into them— watching the pink sun burn behind the buildings nearest the gate.

“You’re full of shit,” they said finally.

“Why this time?” he asked, holding his mug loosely. There was a chip in the rim that he kept carefully away from his mouth.

“You said you were going for a walk. Bullshit,” they said simply, warming their hands against their drink. Antiva was much warmer than Fereldan would ever be, but it was also a desert whose temperatures tended to drop drastically as the sun disappeared.

“Oh?” he asked, brushing his free hand through Gary’s bedhead.

“You woke up two hours early to walk?”

“It’s possible.”

“You’re going after Crows without me,” they accused without venom. They’d known for weeks that Zevran was doing this mission while they toiled away in the Alienage— he would go out with the other husbands (taking turns with Gahruil) and come back hours later than his companions would. He went for early morning walks to clear his head and wasn’t seen by anyone until evening— half the Alienage thought he was having an affair. That had been sort of funny, to have the Haren put a hand on their shoulder and tell them that she was here to listen if Gary and Zev were having problems.

Zevran didn’t respond for a while, then shrugged. “More than one person is double the chance of being detected,” he said flippantly, taking a sip. He drank his coffee black and preferred it when it was hot. The longer it was in the mug the less likely it became that he would actually finish it. “You haven’t missed much— mostly arrogant children discussing their eventual bids for Master status. One of them actually said she would kill you as I failed to,” he said with a grin.

“You’d tell me unless you thought I’d be upset,” they said, pressing their cheek against his arm. His elbow was on his knee and his whole body was still loose with sleep; they liked how comfy when he let go of his self-consciousness.

“Are you upset?” he asked.

“A little. What if you’re hurt and I don’t know where to start looking?” they asked, tracing the lines of his tattoos down his biceps.

“What if the Crows send someone with two brains cells to rub together and haul you off for _interrogation?”_ he asked, finishing his mug and taking theirs with a little grimace at the sweetness.

“You think genuinely not knowing anything will somehow deter them?” they asked. He frowned, placing the mug down on the side table and pulling them up to kiss. He was warm and soft and pliant and smelled like cocoa butter _(too expensive for an Alienage elf, he would have to use the knock-off stuff that’s perfumed and probably bleaches the skin and he’d rather hide himself to be made into boots than that)_.

He really got into it, and despite knowing exactly why he’d suddenly decided he wanted to make-out, Gahruil wasn’t a good enough liar to say that they weren’t floored by him. _He’s too pretty to be an Alienage elf, too well-kept to be one of us, there’s no baby powder in his hair to try and hide three days of not being able to wash, there’s no stench of old rags watered down for a wipe-clean almost as good as a bath, he smells expensive and he smiles too much and too genuinely._

“You gunna kiss me until I forget what we’re fighting about?” they asked against his lips. They jumped when he flung the pillow he’d had his fingers clenched in at their head.

 _“Braska,_ you ruined the moment.” Gary grabbed the pillow they’d been sleeping on, still a little wet with drool that they would never admit came from them _(you kept Tathas with Alistair, you can’t blame him from Antiva)_ and flung it towards him, yanking it out of his grasp when he made a move for it. “So that’s how it is,” he said, tensing up in preparation to move.

Gahruil disappeared into air.

“That’s cheating!” Zevran called, turning around in circles and he moved towards his fallen pillow. Gary waited until he was forced to pause, then whipped the pillow directly into his face. He tried to grab them but they threw up their decoy, a trick they’d learned in Amaranthine, and rolled back into the kitchen. “You are not the only rogue in this house Tabris,” he warned, picking up his weaponized pillow.

Gary knew that this was just as much a distraction as the kissing had been, but couldn’t bring themself to refocus the conversation. “Not the only one, but the best one,” they teased.

Zevran made a move towards the chest that held his smoke bombs and Gahruil let out a warcry as they dived to stop him.

. . . . .

As morning washed over the Alienage, Sonia hung up her thin and greying linens on the clothesline that hung in between her family’s house and the neighbours. They were odd folk, but friendly— the husband was handsome and obviously unused to Alienages, while the other spouse seemed much more in line with what she’d _thought_ the new couple would be like. _They_ were a real Alienage elf, even with all the sad looks and gritted teeth that was, in Sonia’s own opinion, _dangerously_ toeing the line of _maybe_ someone who’d seen a Purge or two in their life. The popular rumour was that the husband, Pol, was a noble pet that had run off with the serving class Tathas and invoked the wrath of their lord.

They emerged from the house looking in much better spirits than usual. Pol’s blonde hair was tied back into a loose bun and he spoke animatedly with his spouse. Tathas was smiling and nodding along— a quiet one with everyone, it seemed— actually looking untroubled.

 _“_ _Buenos días!”_ Sonia called, and both of their heads turned to her. Tathas made a move as if they were going to scale the building to help her hang the laundry, but Sonia waved them away.

“ _Buenos días,_ _señora_ ,” Pol returned, pulling Tathas back against him.

“Busy day?” they asked. Tathas barely spoke a word of Antivan but in truth Sonia had barely heard them speak a word of Common either. What they did say sounded remarkably _southern_ which had perplexed the gossips in the Alienage since day one.

“Laundry, errands— the usual. Yourselves?” Pol looked down at Tathas briefly before turning back to her.

“I will be at the docks,” he said, his charming smile barely faltering. “See what sort of work I can find, what gossip I can look into.” Tathas looked smug and Sonia couldn’t help but wonder if they’d finally convinced their lackadaisy husband to find a job. The other husbands reported that Tathas was blunt and obviously accustomed to the sort of manual labour working class elves everywhere practiced— Pol, on the other hand, was charming and charismatic, graceful and with quick reflexes, but showed no outwards signs of any work history. That, naturally, had begun the _pet_ rumour.

“Have to buy food,” Tathas said. “Buy food and maybe join him down at the docks.” _That_ seemed to irritate him and Sonia drank in every detail. The couple was the most interesting thing to happen in the Alienage for ages, and she wouldn’t be left out of the gossip circle.

“Take your time buying food,” he said flatly. “I doubt you could find me.” _That_ fed into Sorvin the cobbler’s theory about Pol having an affair.

“If you say so,” Tathas returned smugly. Unable to infer what that could mean, Sonia dug for more clues.

“Are you two going to Mira and Delora’s reception? It’s BYOB but I imagine everyone will be drunk before dusk,” she said, hooking her clothespins to the hem of her pants.

“Were they married? I thought they would elope for sure,” Pol said. Sonia shook her head— the girls had been the other rumour going around and when they got engaged the story had lost most of its intrigue, to the young couple’s relief. “I will drop in— _amore?”_ He looked down at his spouse.

“Maybe,” they answered shortly, looking supremely uncomfortable. _Weddings_ was an odd topic with these two as well— Pol would go on forever about their wedding if you let him, and the details got more extravagant and obviously fake the more he spoke, whereas Tathas avoided the topic altogether. “Gotta get going,” they said, trying to smile. It came out as more of a grimace.

It was obviously meant to be an excuse, but Pol turned Tathas on their heel and kissed them like it was the last time he would ever see them. He set them on their feet properly when he finished, pressing a kiss to their head as if to ground them. “I will be home before the reception,” he told them.

“Better be," they murmured, slowly unwinding their fingers from his shirt.

. . . . .

Three days later, the neighbour's house was empty. There was no note as to where they had gone but besides their furniture, all their possessions had disappeared and no one could quite remember seeing them after the reception where they had spent the night with their heads pressed together, speaking quietly to each other and no one else.

And in a few more days, people stopped talking about them.

**Author's Note:**

> [My writing blog is here](http://nebulaad.tumblr.com) and now presenting [the nonbinary fandom blog](http://nb-fandom.tumblr.com) that CopperCaravan and I are trying to run. It's really hard to find NB content as it turns out. It's a scale really. The scale ranges from "there's nothing there" to "wow that sure is upsetting". We're making do and Lev is much better at it than I am, but I know a lot of you are pumped about Gary being NB so reach in to your local tumblr and find a friend and a gender nonconforming protag for a variety of fandoms.
> 
> Gahruil picked their fake names btw. 'Pol' because I HC that Pol and them were besties before he pissed off to find the Dalish, and 'Tathas' because you bet your ass Gahruil named themself after their dog.


End file.
